


Siesta

by ElleBrittany



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, M/M, bitchy sherlock, domestic life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:26:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleBrittany/pseuds/ElleBrittany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unusually hot day unravels the residents of 221B. Can be interpreted as an established relationship or friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Siesta

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Sherlock fic/ficlet. :)

It was an unusually slow, hot day. The flat felt like an oven, entirely too warm even though the windows were all wide open. The light which flooded the sitting room was painfully overbright and the breeze seemed unbearably humid. John had even shed his favorite jumper and was now lounging on the sofa in a t-shirt while idly scrolling through channels on the telly. There hadn’t been a case for nearly a week now. Sherlock was pacing up and down the sitting-room, clad in the usual blue dressing gown and pyjamas, his tousled hair sprung up in all directions.“I need a case,” he said doggedly, as though defeated. (He’d been saying it all morning, in between bouts of throwing antique stiletto daggers at the wall and then bashing his head against it). Suddenly he stomped over to his flatmate, pale green eyes growing wild as he bobbed in front of the telly.

“John! John. What day is it?”

“Duno. Sunday, I think,” John answered languidly, checking his watch for no reason. “Sit down, will you? You’re making me anxious.” He tried to wave Sherlock out of the way.

“Sunday?” Sherlock asked, not budging. “Oh, God.”

“What?” John said with a yawn, abandoning the remote control and reclining on the sofa.

“Give me them.” Sherlock rummaged furiously around on the desk before rifling through the bookshelf, checking the skull for good measure – “I need one. Just one.”

“Go compose!” John snapped, annoyed, as he fanned himself listlessly with a newspaper. “Jesus, this heat.”

“For God’s sake, John, I haven’t slept in three days! Now give me my bloody cigarettes or I’ll gut you like I did that pig—”

“Three days?” John asked, rising from the sofa, arms akimbo as Sherlock decked the skull across the flat. “You haven’t slept in three days?”

“I’m bored. I need a case. I need a smoke. I need to gut something.”

“I expect you haven’t eaten in three days either?”

“I’ve had coffee.” The detective stuck his head out the window before yanking it back in. “You bloody know I’ve had my coffee.”

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, coffee isn’t food!”

“Molly gave me a biscuit,” Sherlock added, picking up his violin by the neck and fiddling with the pegs.

“A _biscuit,_ ” John repeated as he shuffled off into the kitchen. “Molly gave you a biscuit,”

“Forced it down my throat, really." Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa with the violin, plucking a meandering tune.

John ignored his flatmate and set about preparing something for them to eat. As usual, the flat was devoid of edible foodstuffs, but the produce drawers were stocked with a couple of human hands, a few test tubes containing a sickly yellowish-whitish pus, and something which appeared to be either an old bit of leather or an animal’s tongue. John sighed as his face met his hand, both of which were slick with sweat. It was even hotter in the kitchen for some reason, and he slammed the fridge door shut before filling and turning on the kettle.

“Right. No food. Takeaway?”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He was reclining on the sofa, violin cradled on his chest, hands together in holy palmer’s kiss.

“I said, do you want to get a takeaway,” John repeated with an annoyed tut.

“Shut up,” Sherlock whined.

“Italian, then. I assume you’ll want the risotto?”

Sherlock plucked the violin lazily. John snatched the nearest mobile and was surprised to see a string of texts from MH.

“Mycroft wants something."

“Aren’t you supposed to be calling for a takeaway?” Sherlock tossed the violin aside and flipped through some more channels on the telly. John sighed and ordered the food. The kettle boiled soon after, and he poured two cups of tea, more out of habit than anything else. The cups sat untouched for thirty minutes. Just looking at the puffs of smoke wafting from the cups made them feel all the more restless and seemed to heat up the room even more.

They reclined on the couch, Sherlock’s feet were propped on John’s lap, violin perched beneath his chin, brow knitted in concentration as he played a few solemn notes on the lowest string. John sipped the now cool tea, which was only slightly refreshing, and listened to the music while half-watching Jeremy Kyle on mute. The melody was sweet and lilting, much like a lullaby, and John felt his eyelids growing heavier and heavier until they became a downright chore to hold up. Before he knew it he was yawning and nodding off, reclining into the sofa with his feet splayed on the coffee-table.

The music continued for what seemed like a long time. Soon the warmth in the room was no longer oppressive but comforting, as it enveloped the sofa like a blanket. The afternoon light gradually dimmed, lending the room its familiar heady glow. John kicked Sherlock’s feet off of his lap so he could recline fully, curled in the fetal position, arms wrapped comfortably round his middle. The last thing he saw was Sherlock perching atop the sofa, catlike, slowly plucking, holding the violin like a guitar.

Sometime later, John opened his eyes. He felt as though he’d been asleep for a week. His body was heavy in the best way, totally limp and relaxed, one with the cushions. The incredible heat had finally abated. The room was now cool, full of crisp air, dull gray light, and the fresh metallic smell of an impending storm. He was, however, slightly surprised to find a pair of gangly pale feet resting right next to his head. John propped himself up on his forearms to get a better look. Sherlock was sleeping opposite him, lanky body curled around the violin. John swung his legs off the sofa, stretched and yawned, and gave the detective a good shake. He didn’t stir, expression remaining stoic and undisturbed as ever. John smiled at the sight of his flatmate, so comfortable and crumpled, folded up tight with his violin, breathing quiet and lulled. 

He shuffled into the kitchen, where two lukewarm containers of risotto awaited him; along with a note from Mrs. Hudson which informed him that she’d picked up the bill for the last time and that they had better pay her back and clean up the mess in the sitting room because she was not their housekeeper, mind you. He picked up one of the containers and perched himself on the edge of the sofa, eating slowly while listening to the hum of the budding storm, reveling in the rapid darkening of the room, the deep white and gray light which was dimly waning from every corner. The first drummings of thunder were just stirring up when Sherlock started sniffing loudly before bolting upright.

“You’re eating,” he said bluntly, his hair now completely windswept. “What’re you eating.”

“Sleep well?” John asked. Sherlock just stared and scowled. John went into the kitchen and fetched the other container. Sherlock ripped off the cover and tucked right in.

“A bit peckish?”

“Of course I am, I’ve had nothing but coffee for three days,” Sherlock mumbled, stuffing his face and propping his feet up on the coffee-table. 

“And tea would be lovely, thanks,” he added with a satisfied smirk.

John put the kettle on again before rejoining Sherlock on the sofa, the violin leaning upright between them. The flat was cool, dark, and smelled of rain. 

-fin-


End file.
